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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23688310">Ludi Equestrii</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/starcunning/pseuds/starcunning'>starcunning</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>X'shasi's Petplay Outings [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Final Fantasy XIV</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BDSM, F/M, Femdom, Petplay, Pony Play, Shasiverse, This is kink content but not sexually explicit per se</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2019-03-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2019-03-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 17:08:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,148</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23688310</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/starcunning/pseuds/starcunning</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a name burned into the wooden placard hanging in front of one of the stalls. It is not “Zenos,” but it is his name just the same. He brushes his fingers over it, opens the stall, and steps in. He drops to his knees and takes the rope in hand. He is no stranger to a stables—even before this, he was once royalty, and accustomed to equitation. He knows how to tie a rope halter. It is rather a different thing, however, to tie one for use on oneself. The red cord in his hands is of the same sort he’s been tied with in other contexts any number of times, and as he knots it he can appreciate Shasi’s preference. It is not too harsh against the skin as he slips it over his head, adjusting the lay of it and centering the loop beneath his chin.</p><p>The shavings that line his stall are scratchy against his knees and shins, but softer than the bare floor would be, and the woody scent of them is almost comforting. He kneels there, breathing deeply, and lets his thoughts drift.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Zenos yae Galvus/Warrior of Light</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>X'shasi's Petplay Outings [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1705882</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Ludi Equestrii</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/mishibear/gifts">mishibear</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>At five bells, Zenos leaves the domus and walks the winding trail down to the stables. It is summer, and the day is still pleasantly warm, the early-evening sunlight painting the Winding Meadows in gold. The air is heavy with the smell of earth and growing things. It is different than the stony, smoky air of the Garlean capital or the dusty haze of Ala Mhigo, a perfectly provincial idyll. He is beginning to see why Shasi likes it so much.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It surprised him, the first time she brought him here—not just meeting the mistress of the house nor witnessing the way that Shasi’s shoulders eased, the burden of the </span>
  <em>
    <span>eikon</span>
  </em>
  <span>-slayer perhaps lifted from them at last—because he knows her history. She has always lived in a city, but for her adventures. Perhaps therein lies the key, because she is always up at dawn for a hike. Elsewhere she might climb mountains, and she is a hunter in good standing with Clan Centurio.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Farm life is something else again, though, and although he knew of her particular love of the Ishgardian chocobo, he had not thought of her as especially fond of horses.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He enters the tack room. It is warmly lit, and smells of leather. Zenos takes a deep breath, and as the scent hits him already he can feel his mindset begin to change. The maintenance of tack is his responsibility—his privilege, Shasi would have it—and like everything he does for her, he takes it utterly seriously.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He takes down the bridle first, inspecting it for scuffs and rust. It is well-oiled and clean, but he buffs the buckles and studs to gleaming nevertheless. The reins, too, are in good repair. Zenos is not sure which bit she might want, so he checks them all—the metal bits for rust and the rubber for cracks and signs of damage.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The saddle is dusty, despite the cloth laid over it to protect it, so after Zenos takes it down he spends some time with a soft brush and cloth cleaning its surfaces, feeling the stitching beneath his fingers. He finds the tin of waxy polish and buffs it to a high shine. The smell of it reminds him of the first time he knelt at Shasi’s feet and spit-shined her boots, and he smiles to think of it. He has not seen her since mid-afternoon, when she unlocked him and told him to make ready all his best tack for her arrival at six.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He glances out of the door to the tack room. Motes of dust float through the air, bright in the slanting beams of the sun. He has a little time, he thinks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He checks the harness and girth. The stirrups. Then at last he has no choice but to address that which he has been putting off—the hooves and tail. The rest of the tack might belong to anyone, but no horse has ever had hooves quite like these. They are black leather—as is everything else, with silver eyelets all the way down their backs. The foot bed is arched, forcing the wearer to the balls of their feet—and the sole of the boot is elevated by several inches of glossy horn. On the underside of each is affixed a silver horseshoe.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They are not easy to wear. For a few weeks in the domus Zenos had to train to wear them with a pair of foot cuffs that bit into his instep if he did not balance on the balls of his feet. Shasi had laughed at the way he tottered around, though she confessed, too, that she liked the effect on his calves—which she had dutifully massaged after each session, which made it all worth it, on balance. She is not a leatherworker, though, so he can’t imagine where she had these made. When he tries, his cheeks burn. Not half so hot as they do to look on his tail, though.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The tail itself is not the real problem—a yalm or so of golden hair, almost as long and thick as that which grows from his scalp, and a perfect match in color. That is as it should be. Were it merely a hank of hair looped through a harness, that might be enough, but the plug is steel, flared, wider than he imagined he could take. He knows better now; knows that for her he can take almost anything. He brushes the tail and sets it down with the rest of his tack, next to a bottle of the oil she prefers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>What else? Cuffs. These too are glossy black with silver hardware, sized for his wrists and biceps in matching pairs. They are not particularly equine in nature, though their design is a perfect match for his saddle and bridle, likely made by the same artisan. Shasi would rather another set of hooves, he suspects, but she has yet to add them to their growing collection.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He takes down a length of rope, running it through his fingers to check for snags or tears, and finds none. Zenos brushes his hair back over his shoulders and coils the rope around one arm, brushing his hair back over his shoulders.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The last thing he does in the tack room to prepare is take off his clothes. Shasi is not there to watch, so he does so quickly, efficiently, though he does still fold each item as he puts it aside. The air in the barn is warm against his bare skin. He stands in the sunlight in the aisle of the barn for just a minute, feeling the grit of the stone underfoot.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There is a name burned into the wooden placard hanging in front of one of the stalls. It is not “Zenos,” but it is his name just the same. He brushes his fingers over it, opens the stall, and steps in. He drops to his knees and takes the rope in hand. He is no stranger to a stables—even before this, he was once royalty, and accustomed to equitation. He knows how to tie a rope halter. It is rather a different thing, however, to tie one for use on oneself. The red cord in his hands is of the same sort he’s been tied with in other contexts any number of times, and as he knots it he can appreciate Shasi’s preference. It is not too harsh against the skin as he slips it over his head, adjusting the lay of it and centering the loop beneath his chin.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The shavings that line his stall are scratchy against his knees and shins, but softer than the bare floor would be, and the woody scent of them is almost comforting. He kneels there, breathing deeply, and lets his thoughts drift. Whatever he is, Shasi has made him. He is not the heir to the Garlean throne and longer; neither is he Hydaelyn’s unlikely champion. Most of the time he is content to think of himself as Shasi’s right hand, as her servant, but for now he is not that either. He is a pony—</span>
  <em>
    <span>her</span>
  </em>
  <span> pony, and nothing more than that should concern him. He kneels in the stall and thinks of nothing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The sound of boot heels on stone rouses him from his meditation—pricks up his ears, in a manner of speaking. There are horses and birds in the barn, and a few of them shuffle about, coming in from their paddocks or turning in their stalls to come and see. He pushes himself to stand and leans his head against the bars, curious.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hello, Prince,” she says, stopping before his stall. He blinks, and presses his nose into her outstretched hand. It is empty—no treats—but she stretches her fingers upward to brush his hair back from his brow.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She stands, bracing herself, in the doorway as she opens his stall, the door sliding smoothly on its track. Shasi reaches up to catch the loop on his halter and clips a lead to it. He notes then her dress—the riding boots had been obvious from the sound of her first step, and she usually wears breeches, but her shirt has a stiffer collar and she’s wearing a vest. It’s more formal than he’s used to seeing her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The part of him that is Zenos wants to know what she’s about, but even if he asks she won’t answer. Instead, she stands at his left shoulder and clucks her tongue at him, walking him the length of the barn to the posts. She clips the cross ties to his halter before removing the lead, and he shakes his head. The clips rattle against the rings at the post.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Standing in the open air he can feel a warm breeze on his skin. She pats the side of his neck and leaves him there a moment, returning with her grooming kit and his hooves. He tries to turn his head to look back at her as she sets them down, but the ties are not long enough to permit it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her hand skims over the back of his bare leg, just below the knee, over the calf, and she grasps the tendon just behind his ankle. “Up,” she says, but the verbal command is hardly necessary; he’s already lifting his foot, bracing his shin against her bent knee.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She brushes the sole of his foot with her fingers, and he resists the urge to squirm. A piece of gravel clinging to his heel falls away, and then she shoves his foot into the confines of the boot, tugging it into place. He balances there on one foot, his hoof braced against her leg as she tightens the laces all the way up the back, plucking and fussing until the waxed cord is taut, tied into a double-knotted bow.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Shasi lets his foot—hoof—down, and trails her fingers over his back, just above the curve of his flank, tapping and patting as she crosses to his right side. She skims her hand over the full length of his leg then, murmuring the command to him, and he has to balance on one hoof.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She has not cuffed his arms yet, which makes it easier. He tosses his head as the breeze makes his hair tickle against his cheek, and Shasi pauses for a brief moment in her lacing to pat him, just above and behind the hip. She finishes with him, her movements quick and efficient, and adjusts the cross ties to give him a bit more latitude.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His center of gravity is different in the boots; though he has grown accustomed to wearing them he still notes the change. It is one of the things that makes him Prince, he supposes. Another—the next, according to their usual routine, is …</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Tail,” she says, which is no command ever spoken in the royal stables. Nevertheless he knows what it means—he folds his legs up under him, knees to chest, bracing on his hands in the dirt. Shasi pats him, shoulder to back to hip, to let him know where she’s moving, and then her fingers sweep down along the cleft of his ass, smearing him with oil.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He wants to groan, but that is a human sound not permitted to him now, so he grits his teeth, glad of the bit’s absence. She presses two fingers into him, slick and slow, surprisingly cool, and he tries not to tense his shoulders.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Everything about her movements is matter-of-fact. It is at once intensely sexual and completely clinical, because Zenos and Prince both coexist in the moment, but if what she does thrills her she does not betray it. Her breathing remains even and measured even as he struggles not to gasp at the sudden feeling of cold metal pressed against his ass.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She presses the plug into him, and he feels it stretch him. He grits his teeth against a low whinny, and she continues, but he cannot breathe his way through the tension and pain. He makes a fist of his hand and paws in the dirt three times. She halts with the first, and then lifts her free hand to his flank, tapping three times back, his request to slow down acknowledged. They are still for a long moment, and in the reprieve he breathes deeply of the scent of dirt and evening air, and then presses back against her. The last flare of the plug stretches him wide, and he clenches around the narrower neck of it, cold and heavy inside him. He hears her peel the glove off, and she runs a hand through his hair—mane—murmuring in a low voice about her good, good pony.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>With a tug on one of the cross-ties she directs him to stand, tightening down again so that he cannot retreat to his knees. It is easier to balance on his hooves now that he has both, and he shifts his weight, adjusting to the feeling of his tail—not merely the way the breeze flutters through it, but how it rests inside him, the weight making him bear down so that he holds himself a certain way.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Shasi nudges a stool across the ground with one booted foot, until it rests just behind his left hoof. She rummages around in her grooming kit for a long moment, and then steps up onto the stool. She lays one hand on the cross-tie, pulling lightly, and he drops his head. The comb slides through his hair, working out the tangles and gathering it to spill over his shoulder. When she is done combing him, Zenos lifts his head.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ah-ah,” she says, tone sharp, one hand already going to the cord of the tie to try and halt his movement. He lets her pull his head back down, confused for a moment, but such things are not his concern. More interesting was the smell of the grass, the feeling of solid earth under his feet.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She braids his hair—not tight to his scalp, but only the last several inches so that it can fall in a wave beside his head, the locks from the far side swept across his neck to join the braid. He has a very long mane, so several inches of braid fall past his shoulder. She works some golden yellow yarn into the braid so that she can tie off the end.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Handsome,” she calls him, and it’s not so much the word but the soft, proud way she says it that makes him toss his head with pride. The braid falls back into place. She laughs, and holds her hand out to him. He noses against it, and she slips him a treat—a sugar cube, which he eagerly crushes between his teeth, sweetness flooding over his tongue.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He hears her boot heels on the earth as she moves—less stepping, more </span>
  <em>
    <span>hopping—</span>
  </em>
  <span>down off the stool, her hand trailing along his side. She grasps the base of his tail, tugging the hair to one side. When she begins to comb it, he nickers softly. This should be humiliating—preening for treats and making horse noises, pawing in the dirt. And it is—what is left of him that remains Zenos wonders what the Empire would make of him, to see him playacting as the </span>
  <em>
    <span>eikon</span>
  </em>
  <span>-slayer’s personal steed—but it is liberating.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The way she tugs at his tail shifts it within him, and he snorts and shifts. “Fussy,” she chides him, and pets at his flank until he settles, and then she is back to her braiding. When she lets it go, it falls in a single heavy braid, and the breeze no longer blows strands to tickle against his thigh. “Do you have your balance?” she asks, and he stomps his hoof twice for yes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Shasi buckles the cuff around his left side first, then crosses to his far side and cuffs that wrist too. He struggles against her hold a little as she pulls his arms back, clipping the cuffs together just at the small of his back. His useless arms out of the way, Shasi retreats. He can hear her rummaging around in her grooming kit.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The rubber brush tickles against his skin. He can feel his muscles twitch involuntarily beneath the skin, and grits his teeth against the natural instinct to laugh. She makes a satisfied little sound and does it again, watching him shiver and stamp. He tosses his head and the tie clips rattle. He hates the sound, so he doesn’t do it again. She touches him with such care as she brushes him, the knobbly rubber bristles dragging against his skin. It is not painful, just a little strange, and oddly relaxing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The soft brush is more familiar. She must like it as much as he does, because she spends a lot more time with it, tracing the slope of his shoulders, the breadth of his chest. She brushes with a flicking motion over his pecs, and the breath leaves him in a low, animalistic grunt. She has never been shy of touching him, but does so much more freely when he is her pony. She spends a long time up on her stool, brushing his shoulders, his back, the bristles following the curve of the muscles there.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He tosses his head, then turns to look back at her. She looks away from what she’s doing to meet his gaze, and reaches out to pet his mane. “Almost done,” she says, tone soothing. He noses against her hand, and she indulges him with a quick pat, and then is back to her work, stepping off the stool to brush his flank and legs.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The last thing she does is mist him with something from a bottle. The warm breeze is suddenly made cool against his skin. The spray evaporates quickly in the summer air. He feels her pat at his back, crossing behind him, and then she lifts her hand and does not touch him again. When he turns his head she is gone.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The scent of the spray lingers against his skin, vaguely sweet and floral, but mostly like lemons. It is pleasant to be outdoors in the evening, to feel the air on his skin and smell the grass from the paddock nearby. There is a new scent on the air—leather—and then he hears the sound of Shasi’s boots. She has put on her helmet while she was gone.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Saddle up,” she says, and he leans down until the cross-ties are taut. She slides the saddle over his back. It isn’t a real one, of course, though from behind it does resemble one quite closely, but as he goes about on two legs, there are a few more straps required to keep it in place. She buckles the girth first, on one side. He takes a deep breath as she crosses to the other, and she buckles the other side, waits, and adjusts it once he’s let his breath out again. She adjusts the straps with quick tugs, moving from off side to near once more. When she’s satisfied with the lay of the saddle, she reaches up to tug at the straps of his halter, sliding them down to hang loosely around his neck.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He knows what is next, and snorts. She ignores it, already busy with the bridle. He can hear the soft clanking of metal as she lifts it in her right hand. Her left goes to his chin, and she presses her thumb in just beneath his lips, dragging down. He opens his mouth, and cool metal slides over his tongue. A chain dangles beneath his chin—something new, he realizes, distracted by the sensation as she slips the straps of the bridle in place, buckling them down and adjusting the lay of his main. She clips the chain into place—there is a little slack, but not much, and it is cool against his skin.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She attaches two sets of reins, which is a novelty as well. Distantly, some part of him recalls learning to ride with reins in both hands, but those memories are dim and distant compared to the brightness and immediacy of the present. She unclips the ties from his halter, down around his neck, and slips it back over his head, taking hold of one set of reins to keep him still.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He wants to lift his head then, but she holds a hand out. He can smell the sugar, and leans in, jaw working in anticipation. She presses the sugar cube into his mouth with one hand, and with the other feeds the quill of a curly, fluffy feather into a port on the back of his bridle.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He sucks on the sugar cube while she fusses with his mane and adjusts the stirrups attached to his saddle, then leads him a few steps so she can hang up his halter on one of the posts for later retrieval. She unclips his cuffs and lets his hands fall to his sides. He makes a fist with each hand and unclenches it slowly, as he’s been trained. Then she says, “Down,” and he drops to one knee.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She fits one foot to the stirrup, and he rolls his shoulders backwards, keeping his arms out of the way as she swings into her seat. He can feel the reins touch his cheeks as she passes one set into her other hand. He—Prince, now, at last—lifts his head to adjust the fall of his mane. She allows this, but when he stretches his head upward once more, she tightens her grasp just marginally in her left hand, and he can feel the bit pulling against his jaw. He drops his head at once.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good,” she says, and that is a greater relief perhaps than the pressure abating in his mouth.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She touches the side of his ribs with her heels. He feels not warm leather, but the cool, broad tips of her spurs—the first time all day he has noticed she is wearing them. He is not likely to forget again. He is allowed to take hold of her shins as he rises, for the sake of both of their balance, but once he has found his footing he tries to keep his hands out of the way as much as possible.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She does not speak, only leans back in her seat just slightly, allowing the sides of her heels to graze his ribs. He has learned what this means already, and so begins to walk out, onto the track. Her hands are relaxed, and altogether it is a pleasant enough ride. The sun is at their backs, casting their shadows before them. The ground is flat, and he can see a long way.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She likes to go counter-clockwise the first time around; he has noticed this and anticipates it. On the horizon he can see the distant dark mass of a forest, can smell the trees on the wind blowing in from the east. The inside of the track is mostly grass, though there are a few paddocks and arenas. No other horses live here full-time, so the grass grows tall, unmown.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Prince would not mind other horses, probably, and Zenos might like some, but both are content for now to be the only pony at the Meadows. As they approach the bend in the track to turn north, Shasi cues him with the reins in her right hand. The pull on the bit is impossible to ignore, but he notes too the particular way she puts her heel on the outside leg back, and he turns north.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Far behind them, he can hear the birds at the barn fussing, and wants to turn back and look, but she keeps the reins taut and the bit pulls against his jaw. “No,” she says, and he abandons the impulse.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He likes the far leg of the track best, even riding into the sun. There is a little pond outside the track, and he can smell the water in the air. There are mountains in the distance, and even now there is snow still melting, feeding the streams that meander through Argolis. But she passes by the pond without interest, preoccupied by something else.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>On the south bend of the track she does something she has never done before, shifting her weight into the stirrups and pressing both spurs to his ribs, but the reins are taut in her left hand, drawing his chin down so that he arches his neck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Rein-back,” she says, and Zenos understands—has performed this maneuver as a rider before, in fact—so Prince obeys. He lifts his feet carefully, stepping backward, and she releases the pressure on the rein, which is a great relief to him. After two steps, she settles back into her seat, letting the reins go slack as she scratches him between the ears. “Good,” she coos.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then she leans forward. Her heels touch his ribs again, and he walks on. A short while later she tries the rein-back again, though she does not have to speak the command—and his conscious though needs not come to the fore—before he does as she asks. It should make him nervous, backing where he cannot see, but he trusts her implicitly. She rewards his compliance with another murmur of approval.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He can smell her, he realizes as they round the last bend together for the final stretch of the track. Not just the leather of her boots or the clothing she wears, but her, skin-scent and a trickle of sweat, all around him. It is comforting, more than anything else.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She shifts back in her seat and halts him well short of the barn, then nudges her heels against him three times. This is the signal for “Down” when she is astride, and he carefully clasps her shins to him and sinks to his knees, then lets her go. She dismounts him with an affectionate pat to his neck, gathering the reins to lead him. Before he rises, he leans in to nuzzle against her, carefully pressing his forehead to hers, missing already the weight of her and the confidence of her there.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then he stands and lets her lead him off the track, into the grass. She opens the way into the paddock. The sun is quite low in the sky already, but not down quite yet. There is a </span>
  <em>
    <span>thing</span>
  </em>
  <span> in the paddock that Prince does not know the name of. It has four metal arms outstretched from its low base, and the grass is worn down to dirt and stomped flat by the hooves of a hundred horses before him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Shasi does not bring him to it just yet. Instead she pauses, holding out her hand for him to nose against. When he lowers his head, she unclips the chain from underneath his chin and detaches bit from bridle, replacing it and her dual reins with a much softer lead line. Shasi reaches up and removes the stirrups, too, so that they no longer beat against his chest with every step. She slings the reins over her shoulder, reaches for a skin of water hung from her belt and offers it to him. He drinks greedily, so much so that she almost laughs. The water is not cold, but it feels cool on his tongue and welcome against his lips.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When he has had his fill and pulls away, she clucks her tongue at him, leading him to the circle and lashing his lead to one of the metal arms. She pulls his arms back—he no longer needs them—and clips his cuffs together. She steps away, ducking through the fence, and he hears the creak of metal as she opens some protective cover. Soft light shines on her face—pale blue in opposition to the gold light and violet shadows of sunset—and she presses a button.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The thing begins to move, tugging him along with it, slowly at first, and she leans against the fence a long moment, just watching him. He is disappointed when he comes around on a later turn to find her distracted with coiling the reins and tucking away the bit. When the speed mounts, it is harder for him to keep pace—even his loping, half-skipping stride barely suffices. And it is not easy to do in hooves—nigh impossible with a rider.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His mane and tail slap lightly against his skin, which has a light sheen of sweat. The evening is still warm, owing to his own exertion, but as he is allowed to slow he cools quickly. No longer preoccupied with his run, he notices someone else standing beside Shasi.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Another woman—a miqo’te like her, with long red hair bound back in a severe ponytail. She holds herself erect and serious. She and Shasi are speaking. Prince can hear them, but the words are not those he’s been trained to recognize, so he pays them little attention. He likes the sound of her voice—she speaks in a soft way that he likes, so when she follows Shasi into the paddock he is curious.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Shasi takes hold of his lead, unties it from the machine, and leads him into the grass. She holds out her hand, and he leans down to sniff it. The other woman looks him in the eyes. She pulls on a pair of gloves, reaching up to take him by the chin. He bridles, snorting as he draws back, but Shasi reaches up to take hold of his lead, trying to hold his head in place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Prince,” Shasi says, and her tone is vaguely warning. He snorts, but settles.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The other woman draws back his lips to inspect his teeth, runs a hand along his neck, over his withers and down his bound arms. Prince stamps once, antsy, and Shasi reaches up to pat the side of his neck. She fishes in her pocket for a moment, and offers him a sugar cube. He takes it with his lips, and she lets him stand. The other woman circles him, one hand stroking over his muscles, drawing his tail aside to inspect his hindquarters. She takes hold of his member a moment, murmuring to herself as she draws it up, aside, drops it. Quick, clinical. Dehumanizing. Whatever she says, Shasi laughs, and lifts her free hand to pat tenderly at his side.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her thumb brushes the spot where she likes to spur him, and he shivers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The other woman continues, unperturbed, her hand skimming down over his leg, pinching at his tendon just above his heel. “Hoof,” she says, and he lifts his leg obligingly. She cradles it in both hands, then lets it drop.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She and Shasi talk a few more minutes, but the other woman is just staring at him the whole time. He preens under her attention, tossing his head so his mane ripples and the feather swishes in the night breeze, but it’s getting chilly, and he can’t help the way he draws his shoulders up.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Shasi hands the other woman the reins and stirrups, and she leaves, opening the gate on her way out. Shasi leads her pony back out across the grass. The lanterns outside the barn are lit, moth wings beating against their glass guards. His hooves crunch softly on the stony soil.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Shasi retrieves his halter from the peg where she’d hung it, hangs it down around his neck and latches him to the posts once more. He hears footsteps; the other woman approaches again, and when Shasi unbuckles his bridle, she takes it from her hands so that Shasi can move on. The saddle next, then his cuffs.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She talks to him all the while—calls him a good pony, a handsome pony, mostly, but it is comforting to hear her voice. “Tail,” she says, and he drops. She strokes her fingers down his spine, reaching down to wrap her fingers around the base of the plug. He can hear the soft clanking of metal as the other woman arranges all of his tack over one arm. She tucks her hair back with her free hand, then holds it out expectantly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Shasi slowly works the plug out of him, and he pants the whole time. He shudders as it leaves him, feeling empty. “That’s my good boy,” she tells him, petting at his hair with one hand. She holds the tail by the base of the braid as she offers it up, and the other woman takes it further down the rope of gold, disappearing shortly thereafter.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Shasi directs him back to standing a moment later, and he’s stable on his feet but barely. She directs him to lift one hoof, and braces his leg between her knees as she unlaces the boots at last—something he would be hard-pressed to accomplish now even with his hands free.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It feels strange to stand flat-footed after so long in hooves, but he can balance just fine while she undoes the other. He feels the grit of the stony soil underfoot, smells rain on the night air. A moment later she lets his other foot down. His calves ache; it is not unpleasant.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She climbs onto her stool to brush him down once more. He smells soapy water a moment later, and hears it slosh over the bucket’s edge as the other woman sets it down. She does not help Shasi sponge him down, wiping the sweat from his skin, but Shasi does let him settle a terry cloth blanket about his shoulders for warmth.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Shasi reaches up and slips the rope halter from around his neck, beginning to untie it as she walks back toward the barn. When Zenos follows, it is under his own power, and he is glad of the warmth and shelter of the barn.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She leads him into the tack room and sits him down, rubbing at his arms through the towel. There is a bucket of water at his feet—he plunges them into it and finds it warm, the water faintly scented and soft with oil. It is relaxing after a long evening in the boots, and he groans softly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do you need some water?” Shasi asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please,” he says, the word coming out almost cracked. She holds out her water skin, and he could take it if he wished, but he just drinks from the mouthpiece a long few moments, leaning back with a sigh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How was that?” she asks him. She leans over his seated form to brush a few stray strands of hair back from his forehead. She traces the loose braid that falls along the side of his face, down to his chest, plucking it up from under the towel. Her deft fingers begin to unravel the yarn holding it together.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good,” he says. He sees a flash of red hair in the doorway, and a moment later the other woman steps in.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hello, V’jaela,” he says, shifting in his seat, drawing the towel tighter around him to cover himself a bit more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hi,” she says. Her smile is amused, watching him shift. “Don’t worry about me,” she says, “I’ve seen it all before.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> was certainly true. The realization brings color to his cheeks, despite the fact that this was hardly the first time she had played Shasi’s third hand in their scenes together. Shasi had mentioned having someone come by to look at her pony, too, but the reality in the aftermath is different. Humiliating … and thrilling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought I’d show you off a bit,” Shasi explains. “Maybe convince Jaela to get a pony of her own.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And?” Zenos asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Prince is </span>
  <em>
    <span>very</span>
  </em>
  <span> handsome,” Jaela assesses, busying herself with wiping down the saddle. “I’m just not sure I’m ready for the responsibility.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When did you arrive at the Meadows?” Zenos asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“About an hour ago,” she says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thinks about it a moment. “By chocoback,” he says, remembering the brief excitement in the barn not long after Shasi had taken him to the track.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well,” Shasi says, looking up from her work undoing his braid, “there aren’t exactly a surfeit of aetherytes out here. It </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>the Empire.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He laughs. “I will be certain to mention it to the lady of the house,” he says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You will </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Shasi giggles in return, patting his cheek.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s fine,” Jaela says, sliding the saddle back into place with a shrug and laying the muslin over it once more. “It’s good to ride sometimes.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>All three of them laugh at that. Zenos leans his head against Shasi’s hand, and has to agree.</span>
</p>
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